Trip, her tortoiseshell cat, came to greet her, pressing her head against her ankles with sharp little pushes, prickling with her whiskers. She picked up the cat. ‘Hungry?’ Trip purred, pushing a paw against her cheek, flexing her claws, just not drawing blood.
Jim Huxtable, talking to Hannah Somerton further up the street, put the hat he was holding on his head, stopped what he was saying and stared.
‘Who is that girl?’
‘She’s called Hebe. She’s a neighbour.’ Hannah claimed Hebe.
‘Hebe, a young virgin crowned with flowers, arrayed in a variegated garment.’
‘Thrift shop parka.’ Hannah tried to retrieve his attention.
‘Hebe, daughter of Jupiter and Juno.’ She had opened the door, disappeared.
‘Who?’ What was the man talking about?
‘Hebe is the Latin name for Veronica.’ He looked at Hannah. ‘She harnessed peacocks. Fell down in a position which—’
‘I thought Veronica was a bush. A shrub,’ Hannah corrected herself, fearing to sound lewd.
‘Ah, yes.’ Jim looked at Hannah, small, fair hair, lovely green eyes, rather like Maudie Littlehampton. He was tempted to get to know her, find out what she was like in bed.
‘She’s hardly a virgin, she’s got a son of twelve.’ Hannah laughed, showing her perfect teeth. ‘She’s a cook.’
‘Really? Well, I must go. If you think of anyone with anything interesting to sell, here’s my card. My telephone number’s on it.’ He lost interest in Hannah.
‘Thanks, I’ll get in touch if I think of anything.’
‘Thank you.’ He began to move away.
‘Did you see my aunt’s paperweights?’ She tried to keep him talking; really attractive men were a rarity.
‘Yes, she doesn’t want to part.’
‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ She would like to delay him.
‘Very pretty.’ He moved away. She liked the way he walked, a European lope, an American lope was quite different. His hair under the hat was grey, his eyes dark grey. Wish I knew more about antiques, she thought as she crossed the street, then I could have kept him talking. She looked at the card: ‘James Huxtable’. A London telephone number, Fulham address. She opened Hebe’s door and walked into the house.
‘You came up the street in a rush.’ Her statement held a question.
‘It’s good for the heart, they say.’ Hebe snapped shut her mind, trapping her fears until the next time.
‘What was the hurry?’ Hannah pressed her, curious.
‘I must get into dry clothes, I am soaked.’ Why does she walk in on me like this? ‘There were two idiot girls who pushed their children out into the street and nearly got them killed.’ She took off her parka and shook it. Trip moved hastily under a chair to avoid the drops. ‘They had so many children.’
‘Not single parents, like us. Shall I put the kettle on?’ Hannah moved to pick up the kettle, take it to the sink, turn on the tap. Hebe wished she would not treat her kitchen and her kettle with such familiarity.
‘I must change my clothes.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘For a walk.’ She had no intention of sharing the joy of her walk. The tramp across fields and moorland, the sound of water dripping from trees, the rustle of wind, cries of sheep, shriek of buzzards, the delicious solitude.
‘I would have come with you if you’d said.’
I dare say you would, thought Hebe, climbing the stairs without answering.
‘There’s a lot to be said for single parenthood,’ Hannah called after her.
‘Yes.’ She pulled off her jersey.
‘Edward’s late with my maintenance,’ Hannah called up the stairs.
‘Always is,’ Hebe shouted back.
‘I’ve written to my solicitor.’
‘You always do.’
‘What?’
She writes every month, thought Hebe, brushing her damp hair. It’s amazing the funds don’t just dry up. At least I’m spared that hassle. She peered at her face in the mirror. I do not look like them, she thought, examining her face, nor sound much like them. It must be them behind those blind windows chanting their intolerable accusations. She stared at her high forehead, full mouth, dark eyes.
Bernard Quigley had said: ‘Your face is an asset. You look honest.’ And he had laughed his creaky old man’s laugh.
‘I’ve wet the tea,’ Hannah called up the stairs.
‘Thanks, I’ll have coffee,’ Hebe shouted, then reproached herself for snobbery. Why shouldn’t Hannah say ‘wet the tea’ if that came naturally?
‘Do you want real coffee, Nescaff or a bag? How was the job? Very boring?’
‘A bag will do. It was lucrative.’
‘When’s the next job?’
All these questions. Hebe pulled on a jersey and rejoined Hannah in the kitchen. ‘I haven’t decided.’ She took the proffered cup, and watched Hannah pour herself tea, resenting the way she made herself at home, sitting behind her teapot. Then, regretting her surly reaction, forced herself to be friendly.
‘After the holidays when Silas has gone back to school.’
‘And when does Master Silas grace us with his presence?’ Hannah’s lightness of tone failed to conceal the envy she felt of Silas at a fee-paying school, while her own son Giles was state educated.
‘Day after tomorrow. When does Giles get back from the Paris trip?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I hope he enjoyed it. Silas is longing to see him.’
‘Not grown too grand?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Hebe spoke sharply.
‘Edward Krull could perfectly well afford—’
‘Of course he could, but he doesn’t want to. You’ve told me.’
Hannah sniffed, scenting a rebuff. ‘Did you see that fellow I was talking to earlier on?’
‘I didn’t have my glasses on. I didn’t see anybody.’
‘A dealer. He was calling from house to house. Rather dishy. He visited Aunt Amy.’
‘People like that are called “Knockers”. Did she show him her things?’
‘He saw the paperweights. She must have liked him or she wouldn’t have taken them out of the cupboard. I was talking to him, getting friendly, you know how it is.’
‘No.’
‘You are so private. You never stop and chat. You miss a lot. I asked him to come in and see whether I had anything that might interest him. I thought he’d be someone I’d like to know.’
‘Might be a thief.’
‘He seemed friendly. Then he caught sight of you and he said, “Who is that? What’s that girl’s name?” It was as if he knew you.’
‘I didn’t see him, I told you. I hadn’t got my glasses on.’
‘He went on up the street but he stopped and stared when I came over to you. Pity you didn’t meet him, you could have made friends.’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘He talked with that kind of voice, you know what I mean.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You do. He talked like the people you go and work for.’
‘How do you know how they talk?’ Hebe was irritated.
‘I guess, bet I’m right. You talk like them yourself.’
‘Did he need a cook?’ Hebe mocked.
‘I told you, he was looking for antiques but’—Hannah narrowed green eyes—‘he gave the impression of—’
‘Rich?’ Hebe was laughing. ‘Stately homes?’
‘Confident.’ Hannah smiled, not resenting the mockery. ‘He seemed confident until he clapped eyes on you, then he seemed disturbed, sort of puzzled.’
Hebe wondered whether the stranger was a friend of one of her clients. ‘What was he like?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Tall, pepper and salt hair, grey eyes. Until you appeared I thought he was interested in me. Oh, I said that—’
‘I expect he was. You are beautiful.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Hannah looked delight
ed. ‘Honest?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Hebe warmly.
‘Another thing about him, he knew Latin and wore a hat.’
‘Latin?’
‘Said Hebe was the Latin name for Veronica, the shrub. You don’t often see men in hats. And something about driving peacocks.’
Hebe finished her coffee in a hurried gulp.
‘You aren’t interested, are you?’ Sometimes I wonder whether you are a lesbian.’ Hannah probed.
Hebe took her mug to the sink, standing with her back to Hannah to hide a broad smile.
‘I suppose Silas’ father was your one great love.’
‘Have you been reading Mills and Boon?’ Hebe asked coldly. Then—for she did not wish to hurt—she said, ‘I am busy making a living. Look, love, I have to get the place ready for Silas so—’
‘Can I help? D’you want me to leave?’
‘It’s just that I have rather a lot to do.’ Difficult to get rid of Hannah, who thought nothing of staying for hours. How much easier life had been before Amy Tremayne’s niece had come to live in the street, imposing friendship regardless.
‘Okay, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if I can help in any way.’ Hannah stood up. Hebe reached for the teapot. ‘No, no, I’ll do that.’ Hannah snatched up the pot, emptied and washed it with meticulous care. ‘Just give a shout, I’ve only got Giles and Aunt Amy.’ Would she never leave?
‘Perhaps I should have asked him where he is staying. Invited him for a drink, or something. He seemed to be alone.’
‘Some people like being alone.’
‘I could have asked him to meet George Scoop.’ Hannah ignored the hint.
Hebe refrained from asking after George, not wishing a fresh line of talk.
‘I’ve been out with George while you were away. The only thing is, he spends his days gazing down gullets. Would his being a dentist, dontologist,’ actually, put you off?’
Hebe remained silent, noting that Hannah was now on Christian name terms with her dentist.
‘He is good-looking.’ Hannah was determined to discuss George. ‘He is in a good practice. I got to know him while he was fixing my teeth. He is about forty, a bit careful with money.’
‘You told me.’
‘He takes me out to dinner. I ask him back. We watch telly but he—well, I suppose it’s because he is so keen on his work, he keeps making remarks.’
‘Such as?’
‘People’s teeth, he notices their fillings when they laugh, whether their dentures fit, whether the teeth are dirty. He doesn’t use the word “dirty”, he calls it—’
‘Tartar.’
‘That’s right. He admires Mrs Thatcher and Monsieur Mitterand for having theirs fixed. He never gets away from his work.’
‘Wedded to it.’
Not liking Hebe’s ironical tone, Hannah checked. ‘Well, let me know if I can help.’ Still she lingered.
‘Thank you.’ Hebe edged Hannah towards the door, closed it after her. Oh, the joy of being alone! The telephone pealed, shattering with its intrusion the welcome quiet. The cat leapt bristling on to the windowsill. Hebe picked up the instrument.
‘Hello.’
‘’Allo, ’allo, vot colour knickers you wear?’ A thick French accent.
‘Wrong number.’ Hebe put the telephone back in its cradle.
Higher up the street Jim Huxtable sat on the seat a town councillor had given in memory of aged parents who had lived in the street when it was first built. They had complained of aching legs and breathless struggles up the hill. After their death their son had given the seat, inscribed with his parents’ names. Rude boys had carved coarse words and passing dogs did worse. Jim Huxtable waited in case the dark girl should come out of her house, hoping to get another look at her. Pretty name, Hebe, Cup Bearer to the Gods. Not many peacocks to harness in this awful street. What was the indecent posture she had fallen into that got her into trouble, if memory served him right? The mores of the ancients were not so very different from those of the present. He wondered how Bernard had known about the old woman’s collection of paperweights.
Down the street a door slammed and the girl with green eyes came out. He didn’t want to talk to her again. Tired and hungry, he walked fast up the hill to his car and cursed when the engine stalled.
As Hebe closed her door Hannah crossed the street with a hop and a skip. Between the hop and the skip she decided to remarry.
Thinking of Hannah, Hebe let laughter erupt. A Lesbian! What would Hannah dream up next? She thought of Silas, who would be home tomorrow, his brown eyes mercifully not short-sighted, his arc of a nose, hair the colour of a bay horse. Where did the nose and hair come from? Not from me, not from them. She remembered carrying Silas and her love for the unborn child. She had been happy, then, in a precious intimacy which was no longer theirs. Was it envy of those women that brought on her panic? Did they feel for their unborn babies as she had felt for Silas? Perhaps not, since they each had in their buggies the reality babies turned into. I am no baby lover, thought Hebe, yet I loved Silas as a baby with passion.
She considered Hannah’s relationship with Giles; a comfortable intimacy. She envied Hannah but Hannah invented for her ‘a great love’. How banal.
Trip sprang up by the sink, making it clear that she was still hungry. Hebe reached into a cupboard for a tin of cat food. She sat watching Trip eat, then wash herself before going out on her night prowl. The cat sat listening to the sounds from neighbouring gardens, making sure there was no danger. Hebe watched the little animal, thinking, Silas loves that cat. Trip rushed to the back fence and vanished over it. Hebe went up to bed, where she lay mentally totting up her income. The total was healthy. If she continued work on the present basis the years of Silas’ education were assured, although the very nature of her work was insecure. Old ladies do not live for ever and other work inclined to be impermanent. Fun, though, she thought, luxuriating in the solitude of her large bed, kicking her legs under the quilt; enjoy tonight without some Hercules thrusting himself between her thighs.
Two
DOWNSTAIRS THE TELEPHONE WAS ringing. Hebe let it ring, pealing its jarring note over and over again until at last it died. She lay looking forward to tomorrow and Silas, planning his holidays.
Trip desecrated the neighbour’s garden, making a neat little scrape, and, covering her excrement with tender paw, climbed back over the fence. It was raining. She leapt from the fence on to Hebe’s windowsill, dropped into the bedroom, padded across to the bed to insert herself under the quilt. Feeling wet fur against her face, Hebe put on her bedside light.
‘I shall never get to sleep.’ She fetched a towel and wiped the little animal who, purring, burrowed into the warmth. ‘Silas taught you that. You can snuggle up to him tomorrow.’
For the third time the telephone rang. Irritated, she ran downstairs and picked up the receiver.
‘Yes?’ she said tersely.
‘You got big tits?’ A strong cockney accent.
‘I told you wrong number,’ she said irritably.
‘Vot colour knickers?’ pleaded the French voice.
‘You don’t even get the accent right.’ She put the instrument back and covered it with a cushion. She went back to bed where the cat made room for her.
Midnight was striking from the town clock when she was disturbed yet again by a scrabbling at her window, a thud as feet hit the floor, the sound of material tearing.
‘Sod it! I’ve torn my skirt.’
‘God, Terry, I told you wrong number, I told you twice. Twice!’
‘Just look at my skirt.’
Hebe switched on her bedside light. ‘Terry, I’m trying to sleep. Silas is coming home tomorrow.’
Terry was examining the tear. ‘D’you think it will mend?’ he asked.
Slender with cropped hair, wide shoulders and long legs. His skirt was pleated red cotton, worn with a fuchsia sweatshirt. ‘D’you think it will mend?’ he asked, stroking Hebe’s shou
lder.
‘I shan’t mend it for you.’ She lay back, pulling the quilt up to her chin.
‘Listen to why I rang you. I made it with another girl, no trouble at all.’ Terry spoke excitedly. ‘It’s all due to you.’
‘Couldn’t it have waited?’
‘Listen—’ He was taking off the skirt and inserting himself into the bed. ‘What you got in here? Trip, it’s only me, don’t scratch. Bloody little beast, give over, make room. She’s wet.’
‘Terry,’ she protested. ‘I told you—’
‘Listen, love.’ He put his arm round her, settling in the bed, stretching his legs.
Annoyed by the disturbance Trip scrabbled out of the bed and perched on the chair where Hebe had laid her clothes.
Terry snuggled up to Hebe. ‘I haven’t come here to sleep with you.’ He kissed her neck.
‘Sleep is just what one doesn’t do.’
‘It’s the crappiest expression for it. Give us a kiss.’
‘Sleep is what I want at the moment.’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I made it with another girl. No problem. You were right. No skirts. No knickers. I did like you taught. I came to thank you, thought you’d be glad to know.’ Terry was aggrieved.
‘I am glad. It’s just that I want to sleep. I told you it’s all in the mind, now will you—’
‘Okay, now listen to this:
She can present joyes meaner than you do; Convenient and more proportional.
So if I dream I have you, I—’
‘That’s Donne and the verse ends—“And sleep which locks up sense, doth lock all out.” That’s what I want now.’
He laughed. ‘You are not really angry.’
‘Are you in love with this girl?’
‘She was just a fun girl for an evening. I’ve got other ideas.’
‘Someone specific?’
‘Maybe.’ Terry leaned from the bed to pick up a book from the floor. ‘Could we read a bit? Would you read to me, for the last time?’
‘You read.’ She gave in.
‘Okay.’ Terry began reading. ‘I sing the progresse of a deathlesse soule—’ his young voice rising and falling in gentle cadence. Hebe remembered when she had first met him installing burglar alarms in the Midland Bank, noticed him reading Milton, started talking about poetry, an interest which had evolved into reading aloud to each other after lovemaking. He was taking a course in English at night school. She did not know what connection poetry had with women’s clothes. The skirts and knickers were a harmless aberration, the skirt, she suspected, a ploy to rouse her interest. Now it seemed this phase was ending. She had enjoyed the poetry, coming from a boy who looked as though he would be more at home in a disco than reading Donne to the cat, for I am not listening, thought Hebe, and Terry has read himself to sleep. She listened to his breathing, remembering his discovery of ‘’Tis the Arabian Bird alone lives chaste for ’tis but one, But had kind nature made them two they would as the doves and sparrows do.’ For a while he had called her his Arabian Bird. Perhaps that’s what I am, she thought. The town clock struck the half hour.